


what i feel

by scooter3scooter



Series: What Do I Need? [4]
Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Depression, Hurt Peter, Hurt Peter Parker, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Journal, Journal Entries, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker is a Mess, Poetry, Precious Peter Parker, Self Confidence Issues, Self Harm, Self-Destruction, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Self-Worth Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, vent fic, venting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:47:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 7,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23661028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scooter3scooter/pseuds/scooter3scooter
Summary: The cold trigger weighedmy hand down like a chain and ball.All I need to do is breatheIn and outand then it will all be over.In and outAfter a hundred triggers,one more is nothing.It’s nothing, right? Right.In and out—Poetry, venting, and pretty much just journal entries from Peter Parker
Relationships: May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Peter Parker and Tony Stark
Series: What Do I Need? [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1313735
Comments: 115
Kudos: 42





	1. in and out...

**Author's Note:**

> This is a part of my What Do I Need series, but does not have a set chronological place, as of yet at least. Though you do not have to read What Do I Need to read this, it just helps to get to know my version of Peter and his story to give context to the entries.

The cold trigger weighed 

my hand down like a chain and ball. 

All I need to do is breathe

_In and out_

and then it will all be over. 

_In and out_

After a hundred triggers, 

one more is nothing. 

It’s nothing, right? Right.

_In and out_

Countless nights in this same position, 

metal in my hand, body rocking 

back and forth, back and forth 

like a rocking chair too close

to the edge of the porch. 

_In and out_

Just breathe in, pull back the safety, 

just _in and out_. It’s mercy afterall, 

when a dog gets sick, you put him down, 

this is no different. 

_In and…and out_. 

An endless war and all that’s left

is one gun, one trigger, one breath 

and it will be over. 

_In and out_

‘It’s nothing’ after all. 

‘You’re fine’, I will be. 

‘Everyone gets sad sometimes’, 

what about all the time? 

_In… and out_. 

Same room, yet the stained floor 

and the dead lightbulbs

had never suffocated me 

like a plastic bag over my head.

_In and… and…_

Just let go, one last trigger, 

_in and…_

one last thing to steal your breath. 

_out…_

… 

_Of course there is no gun, no noose, not even a bottle of pills. Just me and my blade too small to be lethal and the endless thoughts of that bridge. That too short bridge._

_I can never tell Tony how often I think of that stupid bridge…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this fic was inspired and encouraged by ReloadTheWorld and HopePotter as a way to share my attempts at poetry so thank y’all. Reload came up with the title also because I sUcK at titles so thank you :)  
> Thank you for reading :)


	2. venom vs poison

You are not venom.

You do not snatch me 

like a snake ensnaring its prey. 

You do not sink 

your blood stained fangs

into my limp body.

You are poison. 

Your smile draws me in

like the song of Orpheus.

When I think it’s me

who encircles you,

like Earth around the Sun,

it is you who encloses around me, 

like an impatient vulture. 

When I fly towards you,

like Icarus to the sky 

giddy in my ‘freedom’,

I bask in your warmth, 

allowing my wax wings to drip away,

like a neglected candle.

Your hands on my neck

feel almost too hot red, 

as if your mouth 

would be on mine next,

I do not even notice the pain 

of your squeezing fingers.

You wait until I bite in 

like Persephone to the pomegranate.

I see the whole world

in your dark eyes.

In the reflections

I can only watch 

my skin turn ashen, 

veins bulging out.

You wait until the blame 

can not be on you. 

… 

_ No matter how long I have been living with Tony, no matter how long I have been away from May she always finds a way to suck me back in. Nightmares upon triggers upon flashbacks, there is no escape.  _

_ You can not ever be free from someone you did not even realize was entrapping you, can you? Just because I know now I was trapped, that I was chained down like a criminal, does not make me any more free now. If anything, knowing makes me even more trapped. Knowing those are bars around me and not stripes on the walls only makes me more claustrophobic. _

_ How can I get better if I can never move on? _


	3. I should just rip this page out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw: heavy mentions of suicide

~~ Suicidal ~~

~~ Suicidal ~~

~~ No ones coming ~~

~~ Suicidal ~~

~~ I’m alone ~~

~~ Suicidal ~~

~~ I’m too much ~~

~~ Suicidal ~~

~~ I can’t do this ~~

~~ Suicidal  ~~

~~ I can’t be saved ~~

~~ Suicidal ~~

~~ No one would risk anything for me ~~

~~ Suicidal ~~

~~ I’m not worth it ~~

~~ Suicidal ~~

~~ Please ~~

~~ Suicidal ~~

~~ It’ll be mercy ~~

~~ Suicidal ~~

~~ Please ~~

~~ Please  ~~

~~ Please ~~

~~ Tony was right, I’ve been through enough pain I don’t need anymore ~~

~~ So make it painless ~~

~~ Shoot the gun right into my brain, silence it so quick it won’t have enough time to send the pain signals ~~

~~ Throw myself off the bridge so fast I won’t have enough time to stop myself, won’t have enough time to think  ~~

~~ Pull the rope so fast my neck cracks before I could let out one last cry  ~~

~~ Inject the drugs so quick my body will die from the initial shock ~~

~~ Please ~~

~~ Of course it would never be anyones fault if I cut or scratched or just finally killed myself  ~~

~~ It would be mine ~~

~~ Always mine only mine the one thing that’s mine  ~~

~~ No one to go to nothing to do expect do it do it just end it ~~

~~ Drink the bleach like a dehydrated man at water ~~

~~ Shove the pills down like a starving dog with food  ~~

~~ Cut so deep you hit bone ~~

~~ Watch the blood seep out and ooze down my body, staining everything in its path ~~

~~ Watch my inner stainedness become outter ~~

~~ I’m wasting so much time ~~

~~ Who even gives a shit it’s not like I would sleep anyway not like I’d be rested ~~

~~ Not like I matter  ~~

~~ Not like any of this matters  ~~

~~ Gone, I’m gone ~~

~~ Suicidal ~~

~~ Suicidal ~~

~~ Need to cut ~~

~~ But no one needs to know ~~

~~ No one does ~~

~~ No one ever will ~~

~~ It should be over ~~

~~ It would be so much easier so much better  ~~

~~ It’s not right to hurt someone else like this  ~~

~~ I’m stupid  ~~

...

Update: tonight was not the night  ~~ as much as part of me wishes it was ~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to try something different with this one, make it more of a raw journal entry kinda thing, what you right in the moment but regret later.  
> I have more actual poetry coming for the next chapter.  
> Thank you for reading :)


	4. little cactus

The cactus is small it fits my palm, 

spines poking out 

like thick straight hairs. 

_ My hair forced flat, _

_ falls onto my face.  _

The once rich, olive green cactus 

now stained dusty brown, 

same as the desert-like dirt

that it slumps in. 

_ My empty stomach growls _

_ at the whiff of my Aunt’s meal _

_ meeting my nose. _

The body of the cactus

sat shriveled and puckered.

The leaves calloused, 

like hands that labored

for far too many years.

_ My body so still,  _

_ like my feet are rooted  _

_ to the wood planked ground.  _

Though I wrack my brain, 

I can not recall,

when my Aunt had last watered 

the dehydrated plant. 

_ The hollowness in my stomach _

_ echoes like words in a cave. _

It’s just a cactus they say, 

‘they require little work.’

_ I should have made dinner.  _

‘They are almost self-reliant.’

_ She never remembers  _

_ to make enough for me.  _

Setting the pot down,

I let it sit in its dehydration.

Downstairs the silverware clanks,

My Aunt indulges in her meal for one.

… 

_ It’s wrong of me to ask for things, I should be able to take care of myself. It’s not right to expect someone who never even wanted, someone who should not have to, to take care of me. I’m selfish. _


	5. i believe

Would you believe how many times I have been told I’m broken?

When I look in the mirror 

I don’t see hair and skin, 

I see hairline fissures 

leading to jagged shards 

of my shattered body. 

I see gaping, sharp holes 

where normal people 

would see tear stained eyes, 

giving up any chance of hiding 

the darkness lurking inside. 

Would you believe how many times I’ve believed them? 

… 

_ Because in the end, I am broken. And I’m unfixable…  _


	6. escape

Eyes narrowed ever so slightly,

teeth bared in a way 

that could so easily be mistaken as a smile, 

you stood your ground in front of me. 

Your claws broken and dirty 

from a long day of work. 

Your voice,  _ oh god your voice,  _ calls my name,

higher pitched can not be a synonym to sweet, 

your lips gnarling the word like a swear. 

No matter how small I can make myself

I can not ever escape. 

It would be naive to ever believe 

there can be an escape,  _ not for me _ .

Even when your eyes can not glare

at my pathetic self any longer, 

even when your bared teeth 

are a mere image in my nightmares, 

I can not be free. 

When my own claws, resembling yours

without the days work as an excuse, 

dig into my arm,

I can never have a moment of peace. 

When your voice echoes through my head, 

conscious and unsconsiously, 

no matter how hard I grip my head 

I can’t ever rip the words out of my brain. 

No matter how long I can hide from you, 

I will never be really be free.

… 

_ Escape never really was possible, was it? _


	7. leave

_ I… I just can’t believe that I…  _

No. Maybe the saddest part is that I can believe it. Is that I do believe it. Because I know it’s true.

I know that I’m capable of making the one who promised to stay, to leave.

I know I’m capable of making the one who I thought, who I actually hoped and believed may stay, to leave.

I know that I’m too much. Some people say that I’m not. That it’s okay. That I’m not adding weight, that they knew what they were getting themselves into.

But they didn’t.

I knew. I saw it coming. I knew from the first words that they would leave.

Everyone leaves.

I knew even from their promises and assurances that they’d leave too.

Everyone does eventually.

I knew better than to believe. But the thing is I do think they meant it. I don’t think they realized how much I am. 

I knew, I warned them. I let them know again and again that they have no obligation to me. That they never have to talk to me, they don’t have to stay.

I know that no matter how hard I try, I’ll always ruin everything. I always do. I know that no matter how much I try to not ruin the relationship, I will anyway.

That’s just how this works. I warned them, I saw it coming.

But it still hurts. 

_ God, it hurts. _

But it’s okay, I wouldn’t talk to me either.

If I’m stupid enough to ruin it, I didn’t deserve to have it in the first place.

**I’ll never deserve it.**

… 

_ As much as Tony assures me he wants me, he's not leaving me, it’s not true. It’s just one of... _ **_those_ ** _ things. Those things that people say, and in the moment they mean it. In the moment it is truthful and real and honest…but then that moment passes. And they don’t mean it anymore. _

_ But they don’t always say that they don’t mean it anymore, that what they said, even though it was true then, is not true now. They may even act like it’s still true, but they know it’s not, and you can just tell that it’s not true.  _

_ And as much as you beg them to stop pretending, to not make false promises, give deadly hope, they still insist what they said is still true. Because they’re just that kind, they don’t want to hurt you. But false hope kills more, it lets you actually believe something for once only for it to be ripped away right in front of you. _

_ People say  _ **_those_ ** _ things far too often.  _


	8. Hell

I used to think I was drowning, 

maybe I still am. 

I used to wonder if anyone noticed

my body beneath the waves, 

the water choking me, stealing my air,

never able to reach the surface. 

I used to hope that someone would come, 

pull me out of the water. 

No one ever saved me, not really. 

People are not life preservers, 

They may reach out a hand to you,

give you something to hold onto.

But in the end you’re the one

that has to keep on swimming.

The only way for someone to be a life preserver 

is to let you push them under 

so that you can float above them

while they now drown beneath the surface.

I have to keep on fighting,

keep on trying to swim on my own.

I stop sometimes, give into the water

pulling me deeper and deeper. 

But that’s all that happens, 

I go deeper into the darkness, 

I can’t even see the surface light anymore. 

It scares me. 

No matter how much my limbs ache, 

how little air I had left, 

I need to keep trying to swim,

to reach that light at the surface,

to finally have a complete lung full of air.

Maybe I’ll never reach the surface, 

but I will know I tried. 

I used to think I was drowning, 

I think I was right. 

Now it’s like I’m burning. 

Every inch of my being scorched 

and turned to ash, smoke filling my lungs

stealing any oxygen I had left. 

It feels like a fire, 

but maybe the water just got colder. 

When water is cold enough, 

it burns just like fire. 

Maybe now the water not only

wants to drown me, but burn me too.

Two extremes just go hand in hand.

… 

I don’t need a utopia, I just need to get out of Hell.


	9. burning

Burning so brightly it blinds you

to what it is about to do to you,

blinding light is less lonely than darkness,

it warms you, don’t you love the warmth?

It keeps turning up the heat,

so that even room temperature feels cold.

Even with smoke in your lungs,

you need the warmth, the heat.

Even just warm feels cold now,

do you not love the heat?

It can not leave, it can only burn you alive,

do you not love the burning?

It turns your heart into blackened ash,

only to be blown away, flown off, searching,

for another flame to warm you.

Do you wish that ash could burn again?

… 

_Why must every everyone I love burn me? Why must I gravitate to the burning burning burning? Why must I be left as ash caught in the wind, no say in where I’ll land? Why can’t I be my own fire, be able to burn so brightly no one else can hurt me, leave me scarred?_


	10. a duck

I am not pearly white feathers 

delicately covering my body, 

I am not broad wings 

ready to take me soaring 

into the darkening sky. 

I am not gentle cooing

in the early mornings, 

a soft alarm to wake you up. 

I am a duck. 

Mud brown feathers 

that you can not distinguish 

from any other duck. 

I am obnoxious honking

that makes you want to take 

the shotgun off the wall 

and put me out of my misery. 

I know I should just take 

my thin brittle wings 

and flap flap flap

south for the winter. 

Part of my dumb bird brain

can not help but linger, 

waiting for the attention

I know I will never get. 

Just another bird in the pond

begging for scraps of bread. 


	11. dependent

What I’m trying to figure out is how. The. Hell. Did I ever do this alone? 

No one to talk to? 

Just my writing. Because paper listened better than any person ever did. 

How did I go through panic attacks without anyone there to talk me though, to help me breathe? 

How did I cry for hours with no one to console me after? 

Am I weaker now? 

Am I more dependent or do I just have more people to depend on now?

_ Is depending bad? _


	12. wishes

Eyes wide and staring up, 

tracing every single constellation 

with my gaze alone, no telescope.

Waiting, looking, searching

for a star to fly past, just one. 

For even just a fleeting chance 

to make a wish. 

Though a hundred dandelion seeds 

have flown, scattered, pushed away 

by my gentle puff of air. 

Each eyelash has not dared to fall,

without the weight of my heavy desires. 

Though fields of clovers 

have been meticulously threaded through 

for that lucky little plant with an extra leaf. 

Though months of allowances 

spent in pennies growing with rust 

in the man made fountains. 

A star shooting through the sky 

like a bird in flight 

is just too pure a chance 

to not wait for.

… 

_ But after a while, staring up makes your neck ache, your eyes get tired from the endless staring. After a while, no matter how much you want to even have the chance to wish for something better, staying up so long gets too exhausting.  _

_ What’s the point of wishing anyway? Even after the dandelion seeds have blown away and the pennies have sunk and the eyelashes have fallen and the stars have passed through the sky, you’re in no better position. Maybe, maybe you’re in a worse position. Because you lose that hope that a wish can save you, you’re not waiting for the chance to wish, you’re waiting for the wish to come true. But it won’t. And once you see that, you won’t be waiting anymore, you’ll just be sleeping under the stars surrounded by worthless seeds and lashes and pennies.  _


	13. a villain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw for kinda heavy mentions of suicide and self harm. Please try to stay safe y’all

In the end I’m just proven again and again that I can’t talk to anyone. I am alone. It is too much weight. And you know what? I am the villain. I’m my own villain. Everyone says you’re the hero of your own story but that’s just a lie, I’m the villain. 

_Who would have thought Spider-Man would be a bad guy?_

I’m the reason I get sick when I eat. I’m the reason I cut. I’m the reason I hate myself. I’m the reason everyone leaves. 

I shouldn’t be here. It would be so much easier on everyone if I wasn’t here. I can’t help them anyway. 

_If I’m better off gone, why can’t I just leave yet?_

I’m a horrible friend. I’m selfish. I’m manipulative. I’m a liar. Ned was my best friend and I left him. I left before he had the chance to. Ned was just too too selfless to leave. It was not right for me to keep hurting him. I don’t need different friends, I need to be different. But I can’t. I’ve tried and tried and I can’t be different. This is who I am and I don’t think it’ll ever change. 

_Do I have any right to be lonely when I’m the one pushing everyone away?_

I am a monster. I think horrific thoughts and am too scared to act on them. I am an angry person, I am hateful. I am not sunshine, I’m a fire, I burn so bright I blind everyone around me and then they can’t see that I’m burning them up. I will choke them with my lie filled smoke and watch as they turn to ash, wondering why they blew away. 

_Why can’t I just burn myself alive?_

It’s fitting that I don’t look like a monster. The scariest ones never look terrifying. They’re the ones who listen and watch and then tear you apart from the seams. I can’t help you. I listen but in the end I do nothing. I don’t pick up the phone, I procrastinate the texts. I never help you but I always come crawling back, begging for help. And you help me.

_I’m too selfish to let you go, please for your own sake, why don’t you just leave already?_

I’m a leech. I suck every bit of life out of you hoping it’ll make me stop feeling so dead inside. I’m better off not here. A quiet death would be easier on everyone else, but I myself do not deserve it. I deserve a bloody, horrifically painful death. I deserve every ounce of pain I’ve inflicted upon everyone else..times 3000. 

_Do I even deserve to die, do I not deserve to stay alive and suffer through every moment of it?_

I lie to myself, saying I’m not weak. Only a weak person acts like this. It is not bad to need help but it is bad if your way of ‘getting help’ hurts them. I hurt them. Always. Inevitably. Maybe it is my fault whatever happens to them. Maybe it’s my fault that everyone around me suffers. The common factor between all of them is me. I’m the problem. It’s always me. Maybe that’s narcissistic to think. I’ve always been selfish and self centered. I make everything about me. 

_And you know what? I hate me._

I can’t blame anyone else, it’s all on me. It’s always been on me. I hate me more than anyone could ever hate me. I’ve ruined my own life and I can’t come back from that. I can’t take the scars from my leg and I can’t take the scars from my soul. And I don’t want to. I don’t even know if I want to get better. I don’t even know if I want to be better.

_How sick could I be to not want to get better?_

Sometimes I do not even recognize me and sometimes I don’t want to. No matter how I look at it, how I look at me, I hate me. I don’t know if it’s even possible to not hate me. No one else knows me. They say I’m kind and caring and sweet and it’s a lie. They don’t know me. If they saw all of me they would hate me too. Everyone would. Maybe they already do. I deserve it. 

_Part of me hopes they hate me, then it’ll be easier to leave, what’s to stop you if you have nothing and no one?_

It is not okay for me to be like this. I want to cut, I deserve it. I deserve to burn my arms off with my candles, I deserve to cut until I’m out of blood. I deserve to take every pill in the house until I choke on my own puke. I deserve to rip every inch of skin off my bones. I deserve to smash my head on the floor until my brain is dead. I deserve to be dead.

_I know what I deserve, then why can’t I just go through with it?_

I used to think that I deserved to be alive but alone, that’s not fair to everyone else. I’m a danger. My very existence hurts them. They deserve to forget I ever existed. I can’t give up this stupid notebook when I die, my writing keeps me alive. That isn’t fair. It isn’t fair to them to read my writing. This is the only part of me that’s real. Maybe I do deserve it then. They deserve to see the real me and hate me accordingly. But that’s pain. Hate is pain. I’m in pain. I can’t keep hurting them. If they don’t have my writing I’ll be easier to forget. I’ve always been scared of being forgotten, but that’s what I deserve. 

_Is it wrong to hope they’ll forget me, so that they don’t miss me and therefore can’t be in pain?_

A gravestone with nothing but my name, a grave surrounded by thousands, just another marker. I’ll be invisible. Do not let my family May come to the funeral. Do not let my friends the people who knew me, see me. Do not give away my things. Burn it all. Burn it. Let me burn one last time. And watch me flicker out. No. Actually don’t. Leave me to fly away. Let me finally fly, just ash in the sky. Maybe I don’t deserve to bleed out, maybe what I need is to burn. I need to tear this notebook apart, get rid of all my things, burn my drawings, get rid of every trace of the fact I was alive. Cut me out of the family pictures, scratch out my face. Kill me. I’ll go to Hell, that’s what I deserve. It’s the truth, you can not argue with the truth. 

_How long will it take for them to forget me, for the memories to fade?_

Maybe it’s my fault everyone around me is getting worse. I’m a plague, and plagues only kill. The only antidote is blood. My blood. My death. It’s in every fairly tale. Maleficent was stabbed. The evil queen fell. Gaston fell. The blind witch was burned. The big bad wolf was burned. Ursula was stabbed. In the end, every villain must be killed. That’s the way the story goes. My story is no different than anyone else’s, I am not special, I am not unique. I am a broken boy sitting in his room who can’t even cry while he writes this. If I’m still alive in a few years, maybe I’ll see this again. Maybe I’ll cry then. 

_How can I change the story?_

That’s the trick question, I can’t. I only prolong my deserving end. I can’t see where my book ends, the cruel humor of life. The book is not of life but of death. It’s just turning the pages until you hit the end. Each page is a day. Each chapter is a year. Each part depends. Each book a different length. I’ve always known mine would be a short one. This doesn’t make sense, I know it doesn’t and I don’t care. I care too too much about the stupidest things and not at all about other stupid things. I’m stupid. I don’t deserve to care about me. That’s not right. I haven’t even gotten up, I haven’t even cried, I haven’t even cut. Pointless I know. It hurts now and maybe it’ll hurt more later, if I ever reread this. I probably won’t. No one will see. No one ever sees. 

_Do I even see?_

Maybe I am blind. I can’t be who anyone wants me to be. I can’t be the hero, or the savior. I can’t be a best friend, or even a good friend. I can’t be the perfect son, I can’t be a decent son. I can’t be a good person, I am only a monster. I can’t be better, it’s not in my cards. I am a wasted life. A waste in general really. Waste of space, of time, money, energy, care, everything. I have wasted my life. I can’t get that back. You can’t turn back the pages. I can’t do anything. I can’t. I have failed. I have failed at living and I have failed at dying. 

_When will this end?_

Whatever happens I can’t talk to anyone. I can’t be helped. I know how much it hurts. It hurts. Too much too badly. I can’t keep hurting people like that. But I will, it’s who I am. I’m the villain. And villains don’t get happy endings… 

_Why would they?_


	14. normal

Sometimes 

I wonder what it must feel like

to be normal. 

To not worry every day about having 

a panic attack. 

To not have to always be on the lookout 

for triggers. 

To not have breakdowns over even the smallest 

of things. 

To not have a snake inside you, constantly gripping and squeezing 

all the air out. 

To be able to sleep without the triggering nightmares 

every single night. 

To be able to be alone without having yet another 

breakdown. 

To be able to do _anything_ without your mind 

berating you. 

I wonder what it’s like, but I know I’ll never 

be normal.

… 

_But I’ll never be normal. Even ignoring the fact that I fight crime practically in a onesie and have spider powers and know Tony Stark, I’m still not normal. Why can’t I just be normal?_


	15. to smash my head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw heavy mentions of self harm

I know I let it slip to Tony that I want to smash my head on the floor, but I don’t think he actually understands just how much I think about it. How many times it would take for my head to bleed. How many times it would take for my head to  _ crack _ . How many times it would take for me to be knocked unconscious. 

Maybe I could bleed out and it all would be over. Maybe if I break by head it could finally break my mind. Maybe my thoughts would just ooze out of my head and stain the floor. Finally I would have proof of how messed up I am. That this is real and valid and there was in fact a war. A war I lost but a war nonetheless. 

I can’t help but wonder how much it would hurt. How loud it would be. If anyone would come to try to stop me.  _ I know they wouldn’t.  _ Head wounds bleed a lot, how much blood would there really be? Would I be soaked red? Would I look horrific and ugly? (More so than normal?) Would I look like I had been through a physical war? That would make everything valid, wouldn’t it? 

Where would I hit my head? The forehead or the back of the head? Which would be easier? Would I give in after just one hit? Would it even bleed after one hit? Maybe it would just leave a minor concussion. 

That’s not enough. I need the blood. I need to hit it hard enough that I hear the  _ crack _ of my skull against the ground. I need to not only feel myself break but hear it too. That proves it’s realness. I know it’s real but no one else believes me. This would show them. And maybe, maybe it would finally stop my thoughts, or at least slow things from a flood to a slow drip.


	16. a bird

Sometimes I think that I am a bird but not one with broken wings, 

no that implies I can be fixed, that care and love can help.

They are not broken, my wings are gone, severed off. 

I’m a being meant to fly but unable to do so,

and there is no healing that can fix it,

no way to get better, no way to fly.

I’m just stuck on the ground,

watching everyone else

fly around, fly away, 

if I can not soar

then when,

then how

could I 

leave

?

… 

_ I’m not like a flightless bird, they were never meant to fly. The penguins can swim so fast, and the ostriches can sprint like no other bird, but then there's me. Severed wings, just little nubs left behind to remind me of my loss. To remind me that no matter how much I want to soar, all I’ll ever do is fall. _

_ Should I even want to fly? Afterall, the higher you fly the harder you fall. And knowing me, I’ll only ever fall. _


	17. I need to cut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw heavy mentions of self harm

**I want to cut**

**I want to cut** until there are slashes large enough for my organs to seep out of my body

**I want to cut** until I hit the bone

**I want to cut** until all the stardust in my blood has 

drip 

drip 

dripped 

out of me

**I want to cut**

**I want to cut** until the blood flows out of me like a river

I want to watch the blood pulse with my weak heartbeat

I want to watch the scarlet pour onto the floor

I want to watch the red run down my leg and soak my skin until I’m stained so badly no shower could cleanse me

.

I grabbed my blade and locked myself in the bathroom

I did not grab bandaids or markers

No need to pretend like I don’t need to cut

And no bandaids because how likely is it that I actually will cut  ~~ deep enough to need them ~~

I did wash the blade though, I’m not stupid enough to actually risk an infection 

~~ Maybe I could text someone ~~

I can’t tell them what’s wrong or what I’m going to do, but just to talk

To not be alone

But I know that I will be alone

I always will be alone 

But reaching out hurts more, not like anyone will really be there

Because I then have no more hope of someone coming

.

The blood bubbling up isn’t enough 

It needs to drip 

No one will notice a few more

Or a few more

No one pays attention

No one sees

No one will see

I don’t have any bandaids

Who knew I would actually do it

I would actually and finally break

Finally 

It’s so familiar

It makes sense

It’s the one thing that makes sense in a world of chaos

No one will notice a little more pain added to the mix

No one ever notices 

.

I think I’m done for today

None of them dripped but half of them bubbled up and that’s enough for now

It’s still a cut 

Its still a broken streak

I counted it’s around forty little cuts

A single extra large bandaid does not cover them all

It probably won’t bleed through my clothes anyway, never does

Not the most but not the least

It’s all so familiar 

Like a home I’ve been away from for so long

The sting when I move

The burn when it rubs on clothes 

The fear I’ll get caught

It would be so much easier if I just disappeared 

I did put a second bandaid on but what’s the point

No one cares about me anyway 

I’m so hungry but I don’t deserve to eat

I barely ate dinner 

I don’t deserve it 

I never do

Never did

.

Though I loneliness still claws at me, I can’t tell them

I can’t put that weight on them

That guilt 

That pain

I can’t be so cruel

So inhumane 

I wish I cut more

Too late now, I already have all the bandages on

I don’t want to be alone

But I don’t deserve to be around anyone

No one deserves to be around me

Someone so messed up 

So broken

So selfish

So cruel

So self centered 

So horrible 

So wicked

What’s the harm of cutting more when I have no one to lose? Everyone’s already gone

I can’t yet

Maybe later tonight

They’ll heal anyway

I don’t understand why people claim they care about me

There’s no reason to

I have nothing to love

Nothing of importance

Nothing extraordinary

Nothing even decent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i tried to make this one look more raw and real, like an actual journal entry in the moment.


	18. attention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw talk of suicide

_ Breathe, I need to breathe. _

I had never understood before 

why people would say they were suicidal 

or attempt just to get for attention 

I finally think I understand, took long enough.

_ God, why can’t I breathe? _

Well it really is simple, I think,

no one cares until they realize 

they may or that they will lose you.

_ I  _ _ gotta _ _ need to calm down. _

I can never be able to prove 

that my suicidal days, my suicidal thoughts, 

are not for attention, that I never thought of that. 

_ Only one way to calm down, worth it. _

I can never prove that not wanting to be alone 

with my lethal mind is not the same 

as just wanting to finally get some attention.

_ Why won’t I bleed yet? _

If it were for attention then why, why why,

why would I have spent countless nights 

alone in the bathroom clutching bottles of pills 

waiting, hoping for the drive to down 

each bottle like a line of shots?

_ It always starts as just little beads of red. _

If it were for attention why, why, why 

would I have made vertical cuts in my limb 

without so much as a suicide note, 

wishing, hoping, I could just finally bleed out?

_ Finally, I can finally breathe…  _

… 

But maybe things change, maybe as I began to break open I realized that when I’m having my danger days that they are the only days anyone is there. That those are the only times anyone cares about me. Maybe it didn’t start out for attention but maybe that’s what it turned into.

Does that make me a monster? I think I’m a monster but I would never say, never even think about that about someone else going through the same thing. But the thing is, I don’t hate them, I hate me.


	19. getting worse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw heavy mentions of depression

I'm scared my depression is getting worse

_ As if it ever really got better _

I’ve been so focused on trying to deal with my anxiety that I’ve ignored my depression 

_ Is focusing on trying to prevent panic attacks a bad thing? _

Nothing really makes me happy anymore

_ Do I deserve to be happy? _

I don’t want to draw anymore

_ It’s not like I was good anyway _

Working in the lab isn’t exciting and is much too taxing 

_ It’s best to stay out of Tony’s way anyway _

Patrolling, even if I could, sounds too exhausting 

_ Maybe they’re better off without Spider-Man _

Tv shows and movies all sound boring

_ That’s wasted time anyway _

Reading seems too mentally taxing

_ Probably wasted time too _

My music doesn’t make me want to sing anymore

_ That’s good though, makes me less annoying  _

I know I love all these things

I know I do

But I don’t feel like I do

I don’t feel it

I don’t try to laugh anymore, not like there’s anything to laugh about anyway 

I just try and hope for a genuine smile

Sometimes I don’t even have one one in an entire day 

_ These are signs aren’t they? _

My mind has been so much more consistently worse so much more hateful 

_ As if it was ever not bad _

I can’t do this anymore 

Well I just took four different free online depression tests and every single one of them said definitively severe depression and to seek help immediately 

I can’t get help though 

_ I never can _


	20. making hate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp I think this whole fic is triggering so try to stay safe y’all and don’t read triggering things

Rusted silver p r e s s e d unkindly to the already death-like pale flesh.

Eyes sunken so purple it was like a clown painted the skin. 

Mouth 

drip 

drip 

dripping red like a vampire after an indulgence. 

Pressing the unclean blade in 

(so even if they stop the bleeding they can’t stop the infection) 

the l i n e followed the string of bruises. 

Those marks on the neck were not from love. 

Red 

drip

drip

dripped down the neck, staining the already unclean body, spreading over the scattered bruises like connect the d o t s. 

Red stained teeth bared as when he choked, it was on breath this time. 

…

_ How could I have ever thought fighting crime could come without trauma? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I know this one is way too short


	21. what I don’t need to be told

_ Everyone goes through that _

Don’t you think I know that? 

_ That happens to everyone _

Don’t you think I’ve heard that before? 

_ Cheer up _

It doesn’t help.

_ Be happy _

I know I should be happy, I should cheer up, but I  _ can’t _ . 

_ It’s normal _

That’s the problem. 

_ You’ll be fine _

I know everyone goes through it, I’m not special, I know I’ll get over it. 

_ It’s okay _

But I don’t feel that right now, I don’t feel fine.

_ Get over it _

I’m not happy. 

Believe me  _ I’ve heard it all _ .

_ Tough _

Yeah, it really is.

…

I know it would be so much easier if I was happy. I want to be happy, I wish I could be. But I can’t all the time. I can’t even half the time. I know I’ll be okay but I don’t feel like that right now, I don’t feel okay. I know it doesn’t make sense, it’s just how I feel. I know it’s tough,  _ I’m the one living it _ . I don’t want to feel like this. I believe it’s healthy to let myself feel upset. I am upset. I know it’s not convenient, maybe it isn’t healthy, I’m going to feel like this either way right now. So the option isn't to be happy or not be happy, my emotions are not a switch I can turn on and off, my option is to tell you or not tell you. Right now, I would rather not tell you. 


	22. do you understand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya mentions of suicide

Imagine you're trapped in a clear box.

There is no way out but you already knew that. The box, your prison, is filling with water. So much water and soon you have to swim to be able to have your head above the surface. The box is filling with this thick water, it feels like molasses, and you are fighting so hard not to drown. To just reach the air at the top of the box. You are trying so hard, fighting so hard but you can't seem to reach the air. The box is filling with water, but it never seems to be full. Just full enough to drown you. 

You are swimming with all your might, but you can't get to the top, to your only chance to live. 

You can't breathe. Yet, you aren't dead. You feel your air escaping you, you feel the water invading you. Your lungs soon feel filled with more water than the box itself is. You are still trying to reach the unreachable air. You are trying so hard to survive, but what's the point anymore? 

You soon notice that there are chains holding you down. And as time goes on the weight only gets heavier. Pulling you down as you try to swim up. Your lungs, still too full of water. The filled lungs only seem to weigh you down more. You are dying. But for some reason you aren't dead. 

You look outside the box. You see people. Friends. Family. Acquaintances. They watch you drowning. And they just say, ‘Oh look at them swim.’ They see you drowning, and they don't see that you are dying. Or they chose to ignore it. 

You  _ are  _ dying. Yet you won't die. You  _ are  _ drowning. Yet you won't drown. You are in so much excruciating pain. You are suffering. Each breath you attempt to take only further fills your lungs with more water than you thought possible. Every stroke to try to reach the forever too far away air, only weighs your limbs down more with the chains holding you. 

You try to scream for help, for someone to save you, or to at least just try to, but screaming only hurts you more, and your screams never reach the ears of your spectators. It's like the water stole your voice from you. Eventually you realize, there is no way to survive, and you will never reach the air. You will never live. But you won't die. 

But maybe, if you stop swimming, stop  _ trying _ to survive because you won't live, maybe the pain will stop. Maybe you will finally die and this insufferable pain will end. You could either keep swimming while everyone watches your not dead dying, or you could just stop. 

You chose to stop. 

You let the chains weighing you down, finally pull you to the bottom of the box. You sink. But as you fall. As your lungs are now completely full of water, the box starts to drain. With no one left to drown, the box empties itself. But death succumbed you already. Your pain ended. 

You finally died. 

But everyone that was watching you only saw that you stopped swimming. They came up to the box and asked why you drowned yourself. They came up and asked why would you commit suicide when you were just swimming.

… 

_ Do you understand now? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I decided to make this the last chapter, there’s not really a special reason I just don’t feel like continuing the story. It did it’s purpose, it helped me experiment and continue trying poetry and kept me writing. Now I want to focus on other stories more so I figured it would be easiest just to end this now so it doesn’t stress me out. This fic was an accomplirent for me though so that was nice :)  
> Thank you for reading


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